


I Am Not One of the Good People

by rolandtowen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Caring Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Gen, Gratuitous Caregiving Scenes, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sam Winchester, Post-Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, Sam Winchester Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23165323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolandtowen/pseuds/rolandtowen
Summary: After the events at the farmhouse, Cas' Grace is still too drained to heal Sam. So Dean does the old fashioned way.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 179





	I Am Not One of the Good People

Dean had to restrain himself from clocking Toni one more time before being escorted out of the farmhouse by Mick. Instead, he chose to help Sam up the stairs, being mindful of the recent gunshot wound in his left thigh. Sam hissed in pain with each step, and Dean saw why. Two angry, blistering burns ran the length of his right foot. _Dammit,_ Dean thought, _of course he’s hurt both legs._ When the two of them finally reached the top of the stairs, Mary had pulled the Impala closer to the farmhouse.

“Cas, can you heal him?”

Cas shook his head. “Being Banished from the Bunker, those Enochian brass knuckles, my Grace is still recovering. I can’t heal this kind of damage. Your injuries aren’t too extensive, perhaps I could heal you?” Cas reached two fingers out, but Dean denied him.

“Heal Mom, Angry Spice got me good.” Cas quirked his head to the side but did as Dean requested. “Alright Mom, you’re the designated driver now.”

Mary, after having been overwhelmed by so much today, was happy to be enveloped again by the familiarity of the Impala. Her sons were battered and bruised, but she could drive this car and get them all back home. Cas settled into the passenger seat, and Dean carefully helped Sam into the backseat, sitting beside him. “Seatbelts?” She asked. Dean gave a low laugh, but reached over to buckle him and Sam in. Sam let out a whimper, and Dean cursed himself for not realizing how deep the gashes on Sam’s shoulder were.

Mary glanced back in the rearview mirror. “Alright, driving the speed limit then.”

Nevertheless, the Impala tore out of the dusty driveway. Dean in the backseat focused on what seemed like the most serious wounds on Sam. He stripped off his flannel and held it to Sam’s shoulder. “Keep pressure on that, alright Sammy?” Sam nodded faintly. The rest of the drive, Mary played classic rock, Cas (surprisingly) slept, and Dean raked his eyes over Sam’s injuries again and again. He made a mental list of everything he would need from the first aid kit: alcohol and gauze, needle and thread, fresh dressing for the gunshot wound, and that was just what Dean could _see._ He had no idea what else was hidden under Sam’s clothes.

Sam mercifully fell asleep on the drive back, and not so mercifully, Dean had to wake him up. Sam startled as soon as Dean touched him, flinching away violently. “Sam, Sam, you’re okay,” Dean withdrew his hands, “we got you out, you’re at the Bunker, okay?” Sam nodded, eyes darting between the three people standing outside the car. “Come on Sam, lean on me.” Dean hooked Sam’s better arm over his shoulder to help him to the bunker. Mary opened the door for them, eyes still wide with concern over her youngest son. And Dean didn’t look so good either. Dean’s legs faltered under the weight of his titan brother, and Cas was at Sam’s side in second.

“Where to Dean?” Cas shifted so the two of them were sharing Sam’s equally.

“Infirmary,” Dean huffed. “Mom, can you go fill a basin with warm water? And bring booze? Higher proof the better.”

Mary rolled her eyes lovingly at her eldest. “This isn’t my first-time performing Hunter medicine; I know my way around.” She darted off to the other end of the Bunker, to the giant kitchen, while the trio slugged their way to the infirmary.

Once there, Sam found his voice again. “Guys, I can get to the cot on my own, I’m fine,” but as soon as Dean and Cas released him, he stumbled. Dean caught him just before he hit the tile.

“You shouldn’t be this woozy, you haven’t lost that much blood, have you?” Sam shook his head.

“Drugged,” was all he could rasp out.

_Shit,_ Dean thought, _add that to the list of things I couldn’t see._

Cas rolled the medicine cart over as Dean helped Sam sit on the edge of the cot. “I’m gonna say this shirt is officially toast,” Dean smirked as he cut away at the tattered fabric. He checked Sam’s anti-possession tattoo, making sure none of the cuts broke the circle. They hadn’t. He was lucky. But luck was the last thing on Dean’s mind as he examined Sam’s bare torso. There were the gashes he had seen in the farmhouse, but there were burns on his chest as well. Groupings of two, equidistant blistering marks scatted across Sam’s chest and back.

“Cattle prod?” Dean locked eyes with Sam. He nodded.

Mary entered the infirmary, and she sucked in a breath. Sam’s injuries shocked her as well. She instinctively held the bottle of vodka out for Sam to take swig of, but Dean stilled her hand. “He’s been drugged. I don’t know what and I don’t want to take any chances here.” Mary nodded her understanding.

“What do you want me to do Dean?” She was at the ready, tense from watching her youngest grimace from the backseat for hours.

Dean searched his mind for a task to give her. He knew how tending to Sam’s wounds might be therapeutic for her, but he also knew that at some point Sam was going to have to strip down to his boxers for Dean to look at that gunshot wound. Dean wasn’t sure this was the best way for her to reunite with her Sammy, who was an infant just a moment ago in her memory. “Can you help Cas check all of the Bunker’s warding? I don’t know what else that British bitch did besides the Banishing sigil.” Mary nodded again and allowed Cas to lead the way out of the infirmary. Dean was blessedly able to turn his full attention to Sam. He noticed his little brother was shaking.

“Hey, Sam, lay back, you gotta let your muscles rest.” He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water and handed it to Sam, who drank greedily. Dean handed him another. And another. Jesus, did the British bitch hold him that whole time without food or water? Dean produced a protein bar from his coat-pocket and Sam practically inhaled it. “You good for me to start cleaning you up?” Sam nodded, slumped against the pillows of the cot. Dean made a mental note to check his back for wounds but wanted Sam to rest as long as he could. He dipped a cloth into the water, wringing it, bringing it to Sam’s chest. Sam hissed and his muscles clenched, but he remained still, allowed Dean to gently dab at the blood and grime. Dean hushed him and spoke in soothing tones as he worked, anything to keep his mind off of the pained noises his little brother was making. He made quick work of the electrical burns, dressing them but opting to leave them unbandaged so the skin could breathe.

He shifted his chair to the head of the cot, wringing the towel out, watching the water in the basin turn pink. He started on the deepest shoulder gash. This would require stitches and a generous amount of bed rest; it was just on top of the shoulder joint. Sam wouldn’t be able to do anything with this arm while it was healing. When he was satisfied it was cleaned, he gripped the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Sammy, it’s okay to yell.” Dean splashed a generous amount on the wound, making sure every inch was disinfected. Sam didn’t yell but he came damn close. Gritting his teeth, Sam only allowed a high-pitched whine to escape. Maybe this is why Dean had sent Cas and Mary off. Even around Dean, Sam still kept walls up. He didn’t allow himself to be vulnerable. But Dean needed to know where Sam was hurting. He didn’t want his baby brother clamming up just because their mom was in the room.

Dean wished he had Sam’s skill with sutures, the calmness that his brother had in field medicine. But he was still able to close the wound with minimal tugging at the sensitive skin, despite the sight shake of his hands. Dean realized he had been going nonstop for days, even before Sam’s abduction, because of the Darkness. When had he last slept?

“Dean.” Sam spoke softly, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. “You’ve been staring at my shoulder for three minutes.”

Right. “It’s just such an interesting shoulder Sammy.” Deflection didn’t work.

“Dean,” Sam spoke even softer this time. “I’m safe. You got me out. You don’t gotta beat yourself up over this.”

Dean huffed, wringing out the cloth again, watching the water tinge a darker pink. He swiped over Sam’s cheekbone. Sam cried out as he wiped at the gash under his eye, but he didn’t break eye contact. He was still staring intently at his big brother, eyes full of…thankfulness? Disbelief? Forgiveness? Dean couldn’t bear to process what he was seeing on his little brother’s face. His eyes dropped to the butterfly bandage he was arranging carefully on Sam’s cheek. He left his little brother _alone,_ let him believe he was _dead,_ let him fall into enemy hands to be _tortured._ Dean hid the shudder that crept up his spine when he thought about the despair Sam must’ve felt, thinking his brother was dead forever while a bitch carved into him.

_“Dean,”_ Sam’s voice was more insistent this time, and Dean forced himself to look back into those hazel eyes again. They were wet. “I forgive you. I forgive you for saving the world. I forgive you for taking care of Mom. I forgive you for finding me.” Sam knew that Dean needed to feel forgiven, but he didn’t list any of the sins Dean was paying penance for. He listed Dean’s selflessness, gentleness, and determination instead. Sam knew the difference between what Dean _wanted_ to hear and what he _needed_ to hear. Sam gave him what he needed.

Dean took in a shuddering breath, not daring to take his eyes away from Sam’s. “You always know how to hit where it hurts, don’t you kiddo?” Sam gave a little smile at that. “Budge up, I need to check out your back.” Sam shifted, and Dean repeated the same treatment on his back that the earlier burns got. “Alright, you can lay back again. We gotta check out that bullet wound.” Sam huffed, slipping off his jeans, hissing when they caught on the bandages underneath. Dean unwrapped the bandages, keeping his fingers light around the stitches. The veterinarian had actually done a good job. Dean redressed the wound, wincing in sympathy when Sam flinched as the ointment tugged on the irritated skin. “We’re all done, assuming the job British bitch did on your foot and hand will suffice for the time being?”

Sam nodded, still catching his breath. “Can you help me to my room?”

“Yeah, you want me to get you some clothes first?” Dean made a pointed face at the pile of bloody clothes beside the cot.

“Please”.

Dean placed a blanket over Sam, still not sure he was out of the danger zone for shock yet and hurried to Sam’s bedroom. On the way there, he bumped into Mary and Cas, scrubbing the bloody Banishing sigil off of the library wall. “Progress?”

“Yes,” Mary looked up from her task. “Quite a few of the warding sigils were powered down, I assume that’s how Toni got in here in the first place. How’s Sam?”

“I’m getting him pajamas and then helping him to his room. Kid’s beat.” Mary smiled at Dean. He was an incredibly caring, just like the four-year-old she knew once.

Dean continued down the hall to Sam’s room. He picked out the loosest clothes from the dresser, knowing that any fabric catching on bandages or stitches would only cause his brother more pain. He returned to the infirmary and helped Sam dress.

“Can you stand on your own?” Dean asked, remembering the weak legs from a few hours earlier.

“I think I’m actually fine this time.” Sam tested it out. His legs still felt weak, but they held his weight. The two of them started down the hallway again. When they reached Sam’s door, Dean moved to return to his own room, but Sam stopped him.

“Can you –” Sam looked down sheepishly. “Can you stay? Just for tonight. I don’t know if those drugs are still in my system and I don’t know—”

“Sammy, you don’t gotta explain. Of course, I’ll stay.” Dean followed Sam inside, pulling the blankets back for him before toeing off his shoes and slipping under himself. The second he slung his arm over Sam, he felt Sam’s breathing steady out. “I will always stay.”

The last thing Dean remembers before sleep claimed him was a soft, _“thank you”._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a poem by Marianne Paige that I think sums up Dean's mindset in this fic. 
> 
> “Terrible things happen to good people every day.  
> Consequentially, I am not one of the good people.  
> I am one of the terrible things.”


End file.
